


Little Hybrid On A String (pulled taut, fraying thin)

by Shmallo



Series: Of Monsters And Men [5]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Depression, Exile, Hurt No Comfort, Hybrids, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Other, Suicidal Thoughts, Tommy's a bull hybrid, Tubbo's a bee hybrid, tommy dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:42:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28069500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shmallo/pseuds/Shmallo
Summary: When exile grows too much, and there's no-one else to turn to, Tommy goes to the Nether for comfort.And he does not come out.
Relationships: No Romantic Relationship(s), ew go away
Series: Of Monsters And Men [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056206
Comments: 20
Kudos: 288





	Little Hybrid On A String (pulled taut, fraying thin)

Tommy hated the Nether.

Stifling heat pressed in from all sides, like walls that quashed and choked him down, the ash that drifted like snowflakes, that stung his eyes and he promised that was the only reason he was crying, the red that had always set him on edge but now smelt so strongly of copper he could taste it coating his mouth. Every skull reminded him of the crater he called home, every glow of fire a lantern in the sky, every ghast's shriek a parody of the scream that tore through his own throat. And right when familiar structures fell into view, where promises of comfort loomed large in blackstone and obsidian only to be torn away by the tantalizing swirl of indigo. Only a step away, yet death always soon to follow.

He could remember the first day, when he'd sprinted through the basalt and magma, stumbling across pillars of dark rock in the hopes that he'd arrive _somewhere,_ that perhaps he'd fall back out of this nightmare into a world where friends didn't betray friends and sunsets were accompanied by melancholy music. A world where boys didn't have to be men, didn't have to die for a country that slowly poisoned them. The Nether had been that false promise, that maybe if you hoped hard enough, the dream might come true. Like a moth to a flame, he'd been drawn in, knowing full well he was destined to burn.

Yet for someone who hated the Nether with such vehement, he'd been spending an awful lot of time there. Perhaps, he supposed, it wasn't the light that was alluring, but the burn. And it called him too often to ignore, in darkened thoughts that simmered in the head over soulfire flames.

_It isn't your time to die._

Dream had known the Nether's siren song, had pulled him away from the edge. But Tommy knew there was no care behind that porcelain face, no remorse for what his actions had caused. All Dream cared for was his little puppet, the one that pretended it was a real boy while getting strangled by the strings.

_But did he really care?_

Would he really miss him if he had just tumbled over that cliff right then and there? If he had not been 'interesting' enough, if his little plaything had gotten boring, unable to be tugged along to his whims, would Dream have stopped him?

Would anyone?

_The disks don't matter!_

That's what Tubbo had told him. Their new president, so gracious, aways putting the country before first. Of course, he couldn't give up their safety for a few _meaningless_ objects, silly Tommy, always so driven by his emotions. Nevermind they'd existed far before L'Manberg was ever conceived, or that they were the reason they even had their independence.

The disks didn't matter because Tommy didn't matter.

Oh, they pretended to go along with his ridiculous plans, humouring him until his voice became too grating or his jokes became too obnoxious. They promised him they didn't want to see him leave, but such vows were left empty when they couldn't even bring it upon themselves to write him a letter. Glad to see him gone. Glad to see him cast out from the home he built.

Left alone, with only the Nether to comfort him. 

He'd wandered away from their 'holiday' in Logsteadshire, and the ghost that taunted him with painful lies. Down through the netherack, giving a final glance to the portal far above him, knowing he'd never step foot in it again. He sat on the shore, feeling the dimension pulling him down, wanting to swallow him whole. Soon, he promised, he'd let it.

He felt a presence beside him, the only person whose feet could glide silently over the soulsand valley. They sat down next him, careful not to brush a cold hand through the broken boy.

"Go away, Wilbur."

"No, I don't think I will," the ghost hums in reply, his voice crackling like the fire around them.

They stare out in silence as the lava bubbles and pops, lapping patiently at their feet. They don't look at each other, only the vast expanse of molten ocean before them. Ghostbur gently pours soulsand through his fingers, and vaguely remembers an urge to eat it.

"You're can't stop me."

The fingers pause. Absent-minded memories held no place against the determination in his flat tone. The ghost turns to stare at the living. "I know," is all he says.

The bull did not notice his fingers shifting from sand to keypad. Of course he wouldn't, it was only a whisper.

"Why are you still here, then?"

Ghostbur shrugged. "To help you."

"What are you going to do, offer me some more of your fucking blue?"

He stared down at his sorrow-stained hands. "No, you already have too much."

The bull smiled (or was it a grimace?) and turned back to watch the lava.

"I wrote a book for you. It's no 'How To Sex 3', but I hope one day you'll be able to remember it."

He passed the unsigned notebook. It has but one word as its title. Ghostbur stares at it, static building in his head. One page, but he couldn't bring himself to open it. Distantly, he could hear footsteps on the beach, soulspeed boots sprinting as fast as they could towards them. Tommy stood up.

"I have to go, Wilbur. Maybe we'll meet again later."

He started to wade into the ocean, lava fighting to consume him from within the netherite boots. An incorporeal hand fell through him, a family of voices screamed his name, and he let his body fall limply into the depths.

"Goodbye."

♪♩♪♩♪♫♩

Tommy's final book was very different by the end of the day.

Decorated with a shower of tears from a father who'd lost far too much, blood from burnt hands that reached into lava for a corpse that was long gone, blue-tinged fingerprints for the hope that this time the words wouldn't be forgotten.

Laid to rest in the centre of L'Manberg, between two glossy black disks. The speeches were repentant, the air heavy, and a single jukebox played the melancholic story of an astronaut, floating alone in the void. 

And once the tears had been shed and left to dry, a friend frantically tugged off a crumpled suit jacket, letting wings flutter free as it burned into the sunset. Tenderly, they brushed across a picture taken long ago, alone on a bench, and wished that the compass in his hands would stop spinning.


End file.
